Location: Across the Reich
Date: Year 931 — Month 1 — Day 1Time: 1:46 p.m. to dusk
The trial had ended.
But its voice did not die in the walls of Justice Hall 3A.
It traveled—Through copper wire.Through runic amplifiers.Through hand-tuned receivers.Through old brass radios humming in rebuilt taverns.Through cracked loudspeakers mounted above bread lines.
Through every home where silence had once lived.
The Reich listened.
And the Reich reacted.
In Neufeldtal—formerly Larrak Valley—A farming village once beaten, now unbound.
Crowds huddled around a large radio set on a cart table.Its wooden frame was worn smooth by soot-covered hands.
The people leaned in close,Wrapped in thick coats and damp scarves.A fire crackled behind them, but no one turned.
The names came.The sentences followed.
An old man clenched a fist.His knuckles cracked.
—That was him. Garesh. I remember the gold on his boots when he stepped on my brother's neck.—
He didn't cry.He just exhaled.Long. Slow.
His daughter sat beside him.Only eight.
She asked, voice small:
—Papa, what's "dismemberment"?—
He didn't answer.Just pulled her close.And let the voice of Krieger echo on.
In the refugee camp outside Brudenburg—once Norhadar, now scarred but reclaimed—
Dozens stood shoulder to shoulder inside a mess tent.Steam from thin stew rose into the rafters.The radio hung from a meat hook beside the supply register.
When Alben's sentence was read—Two women clapped.One fell to her knees and whispered a name no one knew.
A man in the back, arms crossed, stared at nothing.
—I sewed his cuffs.——The ones with the gold lace.——Stitched every inch.——Hoped it might earn me one less slap.—
He shook his head.As if disgusted with himself.
And yet—For the first time… he smiled.
In the Schwarzhügel coal pits—Black Hill, the Reich's frozen north—
The foreman raised his hand.All machines stopped.
Miners stood still.Pickaxes in hand.Faces black with soot.
The sentence of public hanging echoed over the mounted speaker.
One miner spat on the floor.
—May the rope itch.—
Then returned to work.Pickaxe swinging harder.Faster.More free.
In EisenfeldA former noble manor, now a school.
The teacher stood beside the radio.Students sat in rows on crude benches,Their boots muddy from the thawed roads.
The air smelled of chalk and smoke.
As Weiss read the names,The teacher repeated each one aloud:
Alben.Vestra.Haelos.Garesh.Relevan.
The children echoed her voice.As if reciting spelling words.
On the blackboard behind them,A hand-drawn map.Red pins now marked every location of tribunal-confirmed atrocities.
One boy looked up when Garesh's punishment was read.
—We used to live on his land.—
The teacher looked at the pin.Then back at the boy.
—Now no one does.—
In the capital — New Berlin — at the central plaza
Canvas displays were stretched across wide wooden frames.Each showed a black-and-white photograph or painted panel from the tribunal.
Charcoal scenes of weeping servants.Oil-painted renderings of the branded.Photographs of the nobles as they stood shackled—Heads shaved.Numbered.
Loudspeakers crackled over the plaza.Thousands stood in the square:
Mothers.Veterans.Engineers.Children.Teenagers in gray Reich youth coats.
They stared at a painted image of Delle—Arms over her stomach.Eyes closed in charcoal sleep.Blood smeared in red ink.
When Garesh's sentence was read,One man gripped the edge of a stone pillar.
He said nothing.But his hand bled where the stone cut into his palm.
Another citizen stared at a photo print of Baron Haelos being marched to the gallows.The caption read:
"To fall as the city once did."
The man watching smiled.Just once.
And far beyond the citiesIn tents.Caves.Wagon camps.Forest strongholds.
The voice came.
—Thirty-four nobles. Guilty.——Sentencing complete.——No appeal. No delay.—
And across the snow,Across the ash,Across the blood-drenched roads—
Flags were gripped tighter.Knives were re-sheathed.Fists raised toward the sky.
The Reich had not just risen.
It had declared itself.
It was no longer a resistance.It was now the reckoning.
Final Scene:
In a radio bunker beneath New BerlinA young operator turned the knob down.The static faded.
He wrote in the ledger with gloved fingers:
—Broadcast: Tribunal Sentencing—Reaction: Confirmed morale spike in all sectors—Crowd turnout: Full capacity in 112 stations—
He removed his headset.Sat back.Lit a cigarette.
And whispered to the ceiling:
—They heard it.From Neufeldtal to Brudenburg…They heard it.—
And for once—They didn't look away.